


Give and Take

by softcronch



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Found Family, M/M, Multi, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Polyamory, Reader Has Powers, Reader-Insert, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn, canon is more like a polite suggestion, like cooking a turkey over a tea-light kind of slow, reader is a badass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2020-07-23 09:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20005762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcronch/pseuds/softcronch
Summary: In a program similar to Weapon X, wherein people taken by human traffickers are sold down the line to a group of corrupt scientists wishing to generate their own superheroes, you and a group of twenty-two others suffer impossible torture in the name of someone else's greed. When you are rescued by The Avengers, somehow you are the only one amongst the group of Patients whose mind has not been utterly broken. If the Doctor and his Nurse are ever going to pay for their crimes, The Avengers will need your help to find them.





	1. Twenty-Three

**Author's Note:**

> though I'll try and keep the reader as gender-neutral as possible, I am writing this as a cis-female (which will only really matter when things turn nsfw.) also I haven't written fic in this fandom in a literal eon, but I'm excited to be sharing this! updates will come pretty sporadically so bear with me.

It’s raining on the day that they find you. You know this because, after so much time trapped inside, the first thing you do when you’re led outdoors is tip your head back and let the downpour pepper kisses all over your face. Well. It’s also due to the fact that you’re too weak to walk on your own, much less hold your head up straight, but considering that the rain is the only positive memories to come of your time in the Lab, you’re choosing to remember it as a poetic moment. You figure you’ve earned that much. 

No one tells you much of anything. Not directly, at least. You’re just one of two dozen folks to come out of the Lab, and you’re far from being the worst-off-- both mentally and physically. In the Lab, for instance, there was a guy in the cot next to you who would spend an hour each day just  _ screaming _ at the top of his lungs, screaming like crazy, hard enough that you’d think eventually he’d shatter his throat. (and you know it was always an hour because you’d thought to time it, once, because the Nurse had finally left you alone and there wasn’t much else to do in the Lab but count down the seconds until the next time they strapped you in to one of their awful machines, stuffed wads of cotton into your mouth and taped over it to keep you quiet, pumped you full of God-knows-what, must’ve been poison the way it made your blood bubble in your veins and oh God just thinking about it makes you want to scream and scream and never stop)

You do a lot of Not Thinking About It in your first few days out of the Lab. Instead you keep an ear out, in between bouts of drug-induced hard napping. You watch the people in the tactical gear who mill about the (well, you’re not really sure where you are, but it feels like a) hospital ward, stopping to speak with the doctors, asking for status reports and estimated recovery times. But no one tells you much of anything. Not directly. The doctors (and these people are definitely doctors, not like the Doctor or the Nurse back in the Lab) visit your bedside at regular intervals. They check your vitals and they lay gentle hands on your wrist when you start asking questions like Where Am I and What’s Happened To Me and When Can I See My Family, and they smile gently and tell you Not To Worry About All That Right Now. Just Get Some Rest. 

So you try not to worry about all that right now. You try to get some rest. Because you were in the Lab a long time, and even clearer than your memory of the rain is the sting and hurt of what happens to Patients who don’t listen to the Doctor. 

That night you wake to the sound of screaming. You think it must be the same guy from the Lab, but it’s weird because he was always a day-screamer, never a night-screamer. And just as the thought occurs to you, you remember that you watched the day-screamer swallow his own tongue and die just two days before you were rescued, so it can’t be him who’s screaming-- It’s you. 

Someone comes to your bedside. A doctor, a nurse, you're not really sure. They have a deep, gruff voice and the touch that they lay across your forehead to stop you from thrashing is cool as metal and just as smooth. They call for help, you think, though you're not paying much attention to their words, not when the memory of the Doctor is so fresh in your mind, him with his cruel laughter and collection of evil instruments. All you know for sure is that the touch on your forehead is there until the medicine sets in and pulls you under, the feel of cold metal being slowly warmed by your skin.

\---

After two weeks in the ward (you're pretty certain you're not in a hospital, not unless this hospital is several dozens of stories high) you begin to feel more like… well, maybe not like yourself, exactly. It’ll be a long time before you rediscover one-hundred percent of the person you were before the Lab, but after two weeks in the ward you begin to feel more like a human being. Which is a victory in-and-of itself. You’re finally strong enough to walk from one end of the ward to the other all on your own (though you do have a nurse following a safe distance behind just in case, looking for signs of wobbling) and you’ve stopped waking everyone up with your night-terror shrieking; now you’ve learned to roll over and scream into a pillow, like a conscientious basket-case. 

And once you start feeling like a human being, the staff in the ward start to treat you like one. You can see, now, watching them check in on your bed-fellows, the near-catatonic ex-Patients of the Lab, that the doctors and nurses had been doing you a kindness when they dismissed your questions in the beginning; you were barely stable enough to comprehend the sight of sunlight streaming in through the window above your bed, much less the nitty-gritty details of your situation. So when, one morning after breakfast, you’re visited by a doctor who says he would like to answer your questions, you take it as a real sign of your progress. 

“Only if you’re feeling up to it,” he says as he draws a chair up alongside your bed. 

“I’d feel more up to it if you guys would let me have a cup of coffee.” You give him a look that says you’re only half-joking.

The doctor chuckles at his lap, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Half a cup,” he says. 

You answer immediately. “Deal.” 

“Be right back.” 

He returns with a mug of coffee (a little less than half full, you note) and places several packets of sugar along with a plastic cup of cream on your bedside table. Ignoring both, you take your first sip of black coffee in what feels like years. It’s too hot, but the scalding on the roof of your mouth is well-worth it.

“Wow,” you sigh, relaxing back against your pillows. “This is really good. I thought hospitals only served, like, hot dishwater.” 

Again, the doctor chuckles as if trying to hide the action from sight. There’s something charming about his shy manner. It’s better bedside manner than anyone back in the Lab, at least.

“Well, I guess that’s the first thing we should address,” he says. “You’re not _ exactly _ in a hospital.” 

“Great,” you say, managing to grin despite the tremor of not quite fear, but something close to it. “I don’t have insurance, anyway. Well. Not  _ good _ insurance.” 

The doctor notices the tension in your shoulders and leans back in his seat, giving you a little extra space to breathe. You appreciate it more than you thought you would.

“You won’t need to worry about insurance,” he says with a kind smile. He watches you for a moment, lets you enjoy another slow sip of your drink. Then he says, “I haven’t introduced myself properly-- I’m Dr. Bruce Banner.” Something in the way he quirks his brow says he’s waiting for you to pick up what he’s putting down. And...it’s weird, but the name  _ is _ familiar-- 

“Holy shit.” 

“Yeah?” 

You grip the coffee mug close to your chest, feeling the warmth through your thin cotton t-shirt. “ _ Yeah _ .” All you can do for a moment is blink. “You’re a-- This is-- This is an Avengers thing? Like, capital-T, capital-A,  _ The _ Avengers?” 

“Yep, we’re a proper noun and everything.” 

“Shit,” you say again. You rest against your pillows, staring down at the line of your outstretched legs beneath the blanket, trying to comprehend the fact that you got wrapped up in something serious enough for The Avengers to get involved. A wry chuckle escapes the corner of your mouth. “Man, I really hope Captain America punched the Doctor in the face.” 

“You can ask him yourself, if you like,” Dr. Banner says. 

You flash him wide eyes. Then, feeling like this should have occurred to you sooner, you twist at the waist to gaze through the window above your bed, which isn’t hard; the entire wall behind you  _ is _ windows. 

“Hey Doc,” you say, still staring through the window with a death-grip on your mug. “Where are we, exactly?” 

“The Avengers tower,” he says. Then adds, “In New York City.” 

“ _ New York, New York _ ,” you utter under your breath. “ _ So nice they named it twice. _ ”

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” You swallow hard and turn back to face the man (no,  _ the literal superhero _ ) sitting beside your bed. You feel like you could scream right now, if you let yourself. Just scream and scream and scream until kind-hearted Dr. Banner stood up and declared you beyond help, Throw Her In A Padded Room And Pretend This Never Happened level of beyond saving.  _ But you’re a night-screamer _ , you remind yourself.  _ Not a day-screamer. _

“Still with me?” 

You look up to find Dr. Banner leaning forward in his seat again, his hands clasped between his knees, watching you carefully from beneath the spray of curls that fall boyishly over his forehead. 

“Sorry,” you say in a croak. “I’m just--”

_ I'm just so much further from home than I thought.  _

You clear your throat, crack a smile. “This is my first time in New York City. How sad is that?” 

Dr. Banner returns your sad little smile in a way that, somehow, for reasons you can't hope to explain, makes you feel less alone. “Well, you’re here now,” he says. 

“Not just me,” you add with a meaningful glance around the ward. The beds (real beds, nothing like the piss-stained cots they gave you in the Lab) are separated by privacy curtains, which give the place the feeling of an old-timey manor with all the furniture covered in sheets, put into hibernation for the season. You’re all here collecting dust; you and all your friends. 

You swallow down the bitter, bottommost dregs of your coffee and grimace. Dr. Banner reaches out to take the empty mug without being asked. 

“There’s twenty-three of you here,” he says. The professional, almost guarded tone of his voice suddenly breaks away and becomes something honest, more open. He doesn't make eye contact. “We pulled twenty-six of you out of that place, originally. Ran the diagnostics. Did all the scans. But there were three that were just…too far gone.” The twinge of regret is palpable in his voice. You know from the media coverage (and a bit of wiki-research, back when you were normal and liked to gush about the Avengers with your friends back home) that Dr. Bruce Banner isn’t the sort of doctor who regularly works in hospitals or emergency rooms but, still, it can’t be easy to lose a patient. (Except for the Doctor in the Lab. For him losing Patients was like losing a strand of hair from your head; always more where that came from.) You open your mouth to express sympathy, but he moves on before you can draw breath. 

“Out of the twenty-three in this ward, you’re the only one lucid enough to even hold a conversation, much less request coffee and crack jokes.” 

Your chest deflates in a singular rush. “How is that possible?” Some of the people here, the other bodies in the other beds, they were relatively new to the Lab, by the time you were rescued. At least, you think so. It was hard to tell when new Patients were brought in, but you always knew when they were gone. The incinerator gave off a very palpable smell. You'd undergone a whole host of torments in the Lab, most of which you can only remember when you dream. For all intents and purposes, you should be a vegetable right now, just like all the others. If Dr. Banner told you you’d been in the Lab for twenty years, you’d probably believe him. But if he said you were only in for three days, you’d probably believe that too. Time has a funny way of moving when round-the-clock torture is the only thing on the itinerary.

His shoulders rise and fall beneath his white coat. “I wish I knew,” he says, and you know it’s true. “We’re running all the tests we can think of. Truth be told, we're not exactly sure what they were trying to accomplish in there. We turned over that place where they kept you--” 

“The Lab.” 

“Is that what they called it?” 

You nod. 

“Not very imaginative bunch, huh?” He cracks a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

That tremor moves through you again, making its home at the center of your chest in a way that leaves your lungs feeling too tight to draw breath. “They saved their imaginations for, uh. Other stuff,” you say to your lap. 

A moment of silence as Dr. Banner lets your words sink in. He clears his throat into his fist. “We should definitely ask Steve how many of them he punched in the face,” you hear the doctor murmur. 

You look up from your lap and meet Dr. Banner’s close-lipped smile. He removes his glasses, giving way to kind eyes that look just a little bit sad and a little bit ill-slept. He turns his glasses over in his hands as he speaks. 

“If we’re gonna understand what they did to you in the Lab, and  _ why _ they did it, and how to stop them from doing it to anyone else, we’re gonna need you to talk to us. Think you’re up for that?” 

You fidget, rubbing your tongue over the mottled plane of flesh at the roof of your mouth, singed by hot coffee. “No,” you answer honestly. “I might freak out and-- no, I’ll almost definitely freak out. But I don’t want them to hurt anybody else. And as terrifying as it is...I know I need to understand the  _ why _ of all this shit, if I’m ever gonna, like--” You gesture vaguely with your hands in a way you hope looks like an emotional moving-on past trauma and on to a better life. Dr. Banner seems to get it, anyway. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, seeming to know even as the words leave his mouth what an impossible request that is. “The Avengers might look all cool and polished on TV, but trust me-- this is a group of people who know how to forgive an occasional emotional breakdown, especially if you’ve got a good reason.” 

“Oh, perfect,” you say with a high laugh. “I’ll fit right in.” 


	2. Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though you're still not sure how much help you'll be, you've agreed to help the Avengers however you can. But before you can do that, Steve has a few terms he'd like you to agree to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I'm at work, Jingle Bell Rock is already the song that gets stuck in my head. It's the worst.   
> These chapters have both been a little short (sorry for that) but I'm just writing this fic for fun in between other projects, so I can't promise they'll get any longer in the future.   
> Thanks to the folks who've already left kudos and bookmarks!

Things move quickly after your chat with Dr. Banner -- no,  _ Bruce _ . He has insisted you call him Bruce. 

(“What about Brucie?” you countered. 

“Please don’t.” 

“ _ Doctor _ Brucie?” 

His only response was a long-suffering sigh and a mumbled phrase, something like, “On second thought maybe I shouldn’t let you and Stark in the same room...” You’re not entirely sure, but something about it sounds like a compliment.)

You’re offered a set of clothes and a clean white towel. A pair of simple black sandals rests on top. You’re shown to the locker room adjacent to the medical bay and invited to make use of the shower. 

“When you’re all done, Dr. Banner said someone will be down to fetch you,” says the woman, a nurse with a pleasant smile but an unmistakable, almost military, way about her, much like everyone you’ve met so far in the Avengers tower. She goes on to ask if you saw the small sitting area in the hall between the locker room and the medical bay, and you nod. “Perfect. Go ahead and wait there, then.” 

You thank her, and the nurse takes her leave. You find yourself relieved when she doesn’t linger; you can’t remember the last time you had a true moment of privacy. You’d be willing to bet there’s some sort of security cameras keeping tabs on you (it wouldn’t do to give some possibly-insane medical patient free reign of your multi- billion-dollar facility) but that thought is almost a comforting one; if something _ were _ to happen, help would be on its way, but for now they trust you enough to be on your own. 

For the first few minutes, you revell in the warmth of the shower and the hollow echo of your movements in the otherwise empty locker room. But, after a time, it becomes  _ too _ quiet. You try singing to yourself as you work shampoo into your hair, to fill the space, but the only songs that come to mind are Christmas carols (for some fucking reason) and you can only stomach one verse of  _ Jingle Bell Rock _ before you snap your mouth shut. You try humming, next, but the sound feels too cheery. Too forced. So you stop humming. You leave room for the silence to settle back into place, but the silence is too heavy, especially once you’ve switched off the water. You can feel it sitting on your shoulders as you bend down to dry your legs. The silence squats on the back of your neck and whispers nightmares in your ear. 

_ there was never silence in the Lab only grunts of pain and the hard packing sounds of punches when the Doctor was feeling a little too impatient for the needles or the knives or the cruel machines with bare electric nodes to fill your body full of lightning and leave you hollowed out on the inside there was never silence never silence and you were never silent either no not even when your throat burned too badly to breathe even then yes even then there was the screaming _

With a towel wrapped around your chest, you reach in to switch the showerhead back on, letting it rain down on the empty stall. The spray of the water provides just enough white-noise to jettison the silence from your shoulders and clear your head. It’s not the most eco-friendly solution, maybe, but if you really are in the Avengers’ tower, then it means Tony Stark will be footing the water bill; you’re pretty sure he can manage. 

\---

The short stack of clean clothes consists of black lounge-pants of the yoga variety and a dark blue t-shirt emblazoned with the Avengers’ logo in the upper left-hand corner. What you’re most excited about, though, are the fresh undies. Even if they  _ are _ on the grandma-spectrum, they’re better than what you were working with before. You take a few minutes to viciously work the towel over your hair and, with your dirty clothes slung over one arm (it feels rude to leave them lying in a heap on the floor) you head into the hallway and the little clump of chairs where you hope someone will already be waiting.

Your wish is granted by the monkey’s paw. 

Bruce has since shed his white lab coat but still manages to look business-casual in a plum Oxford rolled up to his elbows. His head is bent over an illuminated tablet, scrolling the page with one finger. 

Standing at Bruce’s side is a much taller, infinitely more iconic silhouette. His clothes are simple yet clean, the t-shirt and dark jeans appearing outwardly casual while their flattering fit speaks to a higher price tag than you’d expect at first glance. Even from the back, you can tell his hair is the perfectly-coiffed shade of blonde that you’ve seen in the news reels. 

The two men are absorbed in murmured conversation, occasionally referencing whatever Bruce is displaying on his tablet. From this angle, only Bruce stands a chance of spotting you unless you announce yourself. You step reflexively back by a half-step, retreating further into the mouth of the doorway. Maybe you should go back into the locker room. Just for a minute-- not to hide! Well. A little bit to hide. Also to take advantage of the floor-to-ceiling mirror that you’d bypassed completely your first time through. You thought you’d be sparing yourself the sight of a You that’s been ravaged by weeks held in captive torture, but now you’re faced with the very real threat of coming face-to-face with the living/breathing subject of your favorite high school history lessons and you can’t even say for sure if you’ve got something in your teeth. You stand there frozen in place, weighing your options, until the decision is made for you.

“There you are.” Bruce’s low voice breaks through your panic. He gestures down the hall in your direction, guiding the attention of his colleague. The larger man turns. His smile sweeps over you like a ray of sunlight, and twice as warm.

“Oh, hello, you must be--” 

Hearing your name come out of Captain America’s mouth short-circuits your brain just long enough for concern to flash over Bruce’s face, as if your physical and mental health have managed to back-slide in the last thirty seconds for reasons totally unrelated to the American icon currently looking at you with the expectation that you’ll be able to form thoughts coherent enough to say something along the lines of-- 

“Uh, yeah, hi, that’s me,” you force out, with minimal stuttering. You push a hand through your damp hair as you move across the hall to join them. Bruce noticeably relaxes when your steps come steady and balanced, without any indication that you might go sprawling face-first at their feet. “You were right,” you say to the doctor. “I feel better after the shower. But I think the coffee was the biggest help.” 

He nods, betraying a smile at the corner of his mouth, and moves on. “This is Steve Rogers,” he says, needlessly, gesturing to the immense blonde man as if he could be anyone else. “I was just updating him on your progress.” He switches off the tablet, but not before you catch sight of your own name emblazoned at the top, above a chart of what must be your medical information. 

“I hope that’s okay.” Steve stands in a casual parade rest, with both hands behind his back. You get the feeling it’s a hardwired habit. "I don't mean to pry,” he continues. “I was just so glad to hear you're on your feet."

"Um, yeah," you say. "No, that's totally fine. Far as I'm concerned, you guys saved my life. I'm pretty sure that grants you a little leeway where the breach of privacy is concerned."

It takes him a moment to understand that you're only teasing him. His head ducks as he laughs, the sound low and dry in his chest. “Right. Well, I promise not to abuse the privilege.” 

“You could have left those in the locker room,” Bruce says, and for a moment you have no idea what he’s talking about. 

You forgot you’ve been carrying a bundle of your dirty clothes, hugging them to your chest with both arms. “I didn’t see, like, a bin or anything,” you say quickly, embarrassed. “I didn’t wanna be rude.” 

“You’re fine,” Bruce says kindly. “Here, I need to go back to the medical bay anyway so why don’t I take these for you.” He takes the bundle from your arms. If he notices how bad they smell, he’s too polite to wrinkle his nose. 

“I can take us up to the briefing room,” Steve says. 

“See you there.” 

Bruce departs and disappears back through the double doors into the medical bay. You feel bad making him carry your disgusting clothes, but you’re not given the opportunity to dwell on the fact. 

“Elevator is this way.” 

You follow Steve down the hall and around the corner, where a pair of sleek, shiny elevator doors stand guard down at the other end. You’re not all that much shorter than Steve (who you’d peg as an even six-feet tall, give or take) and yet his natural gait far outsteps your own, especially since you’re in recovery. He doesn’t seem to mind matching your pace. 

“So...briefing room?” you say, looking sidelong at him. 

Steve nods. “The team’s already assembled. Bruce said he filled you in a little on where we’re at, but this will be a chance for everyone to get on the same page.” A twinge flashes in his jaw, a brief tensing of the muscles, and it matches the degree of sudden tautness in his voice. Your pace slows to a stop, your eyes fixed fully in his direction, and Steve matches your stance as if he were expecting it. He looks over your face, then down your form. Head to toe. The gaze is far from lecherous or objectifying-- it’s closer to the way an auto-mechanic might stand over an engine that he suspects won’t survive the trip. 

“So it’s a  _ quid-pro-quo _ , Clarice?” you ask, with your arms crossed over your chest and your weight shifted onto one leg. 

Steve frowns into the middle-distance for half a moment. “ _ Silence of the Lambs _ ?” 

You fire a finger-gun at him. “Bingo.” You’re briefly distracted by his charming grin of self-satisfaction for guessing correctly. Waving a hand, you refocus. “But, whatever. Basically I tell you guys what I know about the Lab, and you tell me what you know?” 

“That’s the idea, yes.” 

“But it wasn’t  _ your _ idea.” 

It’s a total shot in the dark, but the moment you say it Steve heaves a sigh and you know you’ve found the bullseye. 

“We’ll cover all this at the briefing,” he says and attempts to edge closer to the elevators. 

“Sure.” You don’t budge from the spot. “But I wouldn’t mind knowing your thoughts going in. So far as ‘same page’ goes, y’all are volumes ahead of me, right now.”

“You’d be surprised.” Steve chuckles ruefully at his feet. His broad hands plant themselves on his narrow hips. “Bruce wasn’t exaggerating when he said we could use your help on this. Our list of leads is about yeigh-big.” He pinches his thumb and forefinger in the air, held a hair’s breadth apart. 

You frown. “Okay… So if you don’t have any juicy shit to share with me anyway, why are you against telling me what you know?” 

“You’ve got it backwards. I’m not worried about what  _ we _ might tell  _ you _ , but the opposite.” 

Your confusion tangles tighter still, and it shows in the close knit of your brow. 

“This is going to sound harsh…” he utters. When he lifts his head, you look into the eyes of Captain America for the first time. 

“Every other ‘Patient’--” the quotation marks are evident in his tone “-- that we pulled out of the Lab is totally hollowed out. Broken. Most of them might never be whole people again, much less useful sources of information. And with the Lab itself a total dead end for clues, that means the only ace in our deck is you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but are instantly silenced by Steve’s raised hand. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” he allows, “I know that makes it sound like we should be pumping you for all the info we can, but right now we still don’t even know why you’re….” He gestures to you as a whole, as you are now, standing there before him rather than lying in a hospital bed like all the others. He shakes his head. 

“So...where’s the harsh part?” you ask. 

His eyes flash, finding yours again. You get the feeling he’s really forcing himself to say his next words aloud.

“If, for whatever reason, the act of dredging up what you went through in there manages to break your mind, and you go dark like all the others, I don’t think we’ll ever catch those people.” 

“You don’t want to burn your only asset,” you surmise. 

He nods sharply. “I think it’s too soon to be bringing you in. You haven’t had enough time to recover. You could backslide and this whole mission would fail before it starts.” You watch his chest expand beneath his t-shirt. He releases a breath strong enough to shake the strands of sandy hair which fall across his forehead. The hard edge of Captain America’s voice is shoved aside and, just like that, he’s Steve Rogers again. “But we put it to a vote,” he says, “and I lost. So we’ll go in there and do this--” 

“ _ Quid-pro-quo _ ,” you repeat, a smirk edging onto your face. 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. 

His steps are surprisingly silent as he moves to stand before you. Once again, it’s not a lecherous act. He doesn’t push far enough into your space to set you on the defensive. If anything, his sudden proximity feels...comforting. As does the hand he places on your shoulder. His palm is warm through the cotton of your shirt. “If you could promise me something first, I’ll feel a lot better about this.” 

When you open your mouth, a bubble of nervous energy pops in your throat, coming out as a strained half-chuckle. “I dunno, Cap, I’m pretty shitty at promises.” 

“This one will be easy.” He doesn’t break eye contact, something that’s quickly becoming your least favorite Steve Rogers Habit. “You strike me as a person who knows their limits.”

You shrug your shoulders. “I guess.” 

“Okay. So if you start to feel like you can’t handle this, or if you need a break for whatever reason, and if I promise that it’s okay and no one will be angry with you, will you say something?” He squeezes your shoulder a fraction tighter. “I’d rather let you recover and catch the bad guys later, instead of rushing things and catching the bad guys never.” 

You wet your lips. “Yeah… And I guess I’d rather not drink cheeseburgers through a straw my whole life.” 

Steve laughs, and while it may not be the world’s most carefree or honest sound, it’s beautiful all the same. You find yourself matching his smile, as he steps away and lets his hand slide from your shoulder. “Here’s another promise: we catch these guys, and I’ll make you the best damn cheeseburger you’ve ever had.” 

He moves to the elevators while you trail behind. He presses a button on the keypad, then looks back over his shoulder to ask, “We got a deal?” 

You inhale slowly. The breath escapes audibly from your mouth. “I mean, alright,” you reply. “But that cheeseburger better have bacon on it or I’m confiscating your shield.” 

Steve answers with a short laugh, his nose jutting into the air. “Of course. I’m not some kinda hack.” 

You follow him into the elevator while he braces a hand against the door to keep it open. 

“Briefing room, please,” Steve says to the thin air, which sends the compartment gliding upward. He remains standing at the center before the doors while you move off to the side, leaning one hip against the wall. 

“And a beer,” you say belatedly, struck with inspiration. “ _ God _ . I could go for a beer right now. D’you think after--” 

Steve shoots you a look. “Probably not a great idea.” 

“Fine. But don’t think I’m gonna forget about that cheeseburger,  _ Captain _ .” Maybe it’s all because you’re feeling more like yourself right now than you have since-- But, anyway, your words come out sounding a fraction more flirtatious than they were meant to be. You glance at Steve, half hoping he didn’t pick up on it, while the other half… 

An undeniable flush of pink settles onto Steve’s cheeks, spreading all the way up to the very tips of his ears. He keeps his eyes aimed forward. “Anything you say, doll.” 


	3. Soggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader meets the rest of the crew (minus one) and tries to make good on her promise to do whatever she can to help them find the Doctor. Along the way, she learns that the devil's in the details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took forever to decide where I wanted this chapter to go, but I think it wound up in a pretty good place. If you have any thoughts about the story so far, I know it's early still, but I'd love to hear them! Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> (mild TW for assault. does not go into terrible detail.)

Stepping out of the elevator, you find yourself in yet another long, pristine hallway bordered by windows and a bird’s eye view of the city. The floors are a smooth, glistening white. Your flip-flops slap the ground noisily with each step, no matter how carefully you try to walk. 

Steve is silent until you reach a door somewhere in the middle of the hall. There are no signs posted to identify the rooms, but you understand by the look Steve gives you that you’ve come to your destination.

“You ready?” he asks. His hand curls around the handle, waiting for your go-ahead. 

A high, thin laugh works its way from your throat. “Me? Yeah, totally. Uh-huh.” You push your fingers once again through your damp hair, only to get them snagged on the tangles. God, why didn’t you spend more time towel-drying it down in the locker room? 

Steve catches you fretting over your hair. “Relax,” he chuckles, his expression kind. “You don’t have to impress anyone. Everyone in this room already has your back. I promise.”

Maybe it’s only because, after everything - after the Lab, all the shit, all the pain - you’re so damn desperate for someone you can trust, but you believe him.

The briefing room is about as over-the-top hi-tech as you expected, and then some. Large colorful screens line the walls, displaying all sorts of information that, from a cursory glance, you cannot begin to comprehend. Buttons and dials aplenty run beneath the screens, with rolling swivel chairs to denote individual - and currently unoccupied - work stations. This room looks like it could serve as a base of operations, if need be. 

An enormous conference table dominates the center of the room. At first blush, it looks like a commonplace piece of office furniture. Rich, dark wood, somewhat incongruous with the rest of the chromatic decor, surrounded by generously padded, black leather chairs. 

But you’re not in a commonplace office building, so all sense of familiarity stops there.

Floating an inch above the surface of the table, projected in translucent blue light, is a 3D image. A hologram, depicting the exterior of an enormous structure. If not for the occasional flicker which betrays the image as a conglomeration of light, one could almost mistake it for a physical rendering. It’s the sort of shit you’ve only ever seen in movies. 

The projected image completes its rotation and presents you with a view of the building’s back side. It looks very much like a warehouse. Six stories tall, including the ground floor. A fire escape zig-zags up the side like a lonesome sprig of ivy. 

All four sides are dominated by windows. Many of their individual glass panes have been broken, leaving behind empty voids. Like missing teeth. Or perhaps they’re eyes. Blank, empty eyes full of indifferent lifelessness, like the eyes of a deep-sea predator. 

The last time you saw this place, you were being carried out. And it was raining. 

You force your head down and away from the hologram, severing its gaze. You clench and unclench your fists - a force of habit born of chronic anxiety - and find that your palms have gone clammy. As surreptitiously as possible, you wipe them on your thighs. 

The group of people seated around the table don’t stop their line of conversation when you and Steve enter the room. It seems you’ve intruded on a meeting. You see Steve take his subconscious parade-rest stance, as he waits for the group to reach a stopping point. Good. It gives you another chance to fidget with your hair. No matter what Steve said, you’d prefer to look at least a  _ bit _ presentable when meeting the people who saved your life. 

" FRIDAY , kill the light show."

The hologram vanishes, sucked back into the high-tech void from whence it came. The overhead lights grow a half-measure brighter to compensate. 

You lift your eyes from the floor, drawn to the man at the head of the table. 

He is dressed in a black t-shirt that has long-since gone sheer with age. A faded KISS emblem streaks across the front. At the very center is an unmistakable glow, winking through the cotton fibres. Tony Stark looks at you over the top of a pair of lilac-tinted glasses. You wonder if he needs them for reading. 

In the interim between entry and introduction, you’ve subconsciously positioned yourself at Steve’s back. Like a cowering child. You huff a sigh, frustrated with yourself. 

_ I’ll have time for panic attacks later,  _ you think.  _ Right now I’ve gotta prove that I can help them. _ That’s it. Focus on the goal. You take a breath and move away from Steve.

"You're the one, then, huh kid?" are Tony Stark’s first words to you. 

It’s impossible to tell if this is meant as an insult, but it doesn’t exactly feel like a vote of confidence. You remind yourself to stand up straight.

"Looks that way," you answer, smirking despite yourself. "Gramps." 

A loud burst of laughter comes from the other end of the table, where a man with closely buzzed hair and bright eyes sits beside a red-headed woman. He’s the only one who is outwardly laughing, but you see that a few of the others are barely holding back chuckles at Tony’s expense. 

The laughing man rises from his seat and crosses to you in a matter of long, confident strides. He offers his hand. "Name’s Sam Wilson," he says. "Welcome aboard. Glad to see you’re up and about."

You match his smile without having to think twice. He’s got an easy way about him, the sort of person who knows how to put folks at ease just by being. "Nice to meet you," you say. You remember to give your name, although you’d bet he already knows it. “Wait, your name’s Wilson? So that means you’re Falcon, right? The one with the wings?” 

Sam’s chest swells with untempered pride. His expression flashes with something like surprise at being recognized, as if it doesn’t happen too often. 

“That’s me,” he says. 

The smirk he tosses to Steve - as well as the way Steve’s eyes roll in response - tells you everything you need to know about their relationship. 

“My little cousin, she thinks you’re the coolest,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “Last year for Halloween, she spent, like, three weeks and all her allowance on hot glue and cardboard, to make a set of wings. They turned out really well, actually.” 

Sam’s head tips back with another bout of laughter. “Man, I’d love to see that.” 

“I have a picture!” Instinctively, your hands go to your hips, patting pockets that don’t exist for a phone that isn’t there. “Oh. Right. My phone’s gone.” With a second thought, you shrug. “Probably for the best, honestly.”

Steve quirks his brow. “Why’s that?”

“Well,” you chuckle, “I always take my cousin trick-or-treating, and every year we do matching theme costumes, right?” 

He nods. 

“Let’s just say the Captain America costume I threw together wasn’t great. Nor was it very accurate. Unless- you never wore a blue tutu in the field, right?” 

Now it’s Steve’s turn to laugh. He chuckles into the back of his hand, his cheeks flushing pink while Sam guffaws and slaps his thigh. You’re gonna have to keep a running tally on how many times you can get Steve Rogers to blush; so far you’re already up to two, and that’s only in the last fifteen minutes.

“Can’t say I have, no.” His lips remain quirked in a grin.

A new voice joins the conversation. “But now I definitely know his penalty, the next time I beat him at cards.” 

Like silk sheets moving across a marble floor, the red-headed woman glides over to join you. She’s a good deal shorter than you, but there’s no mistaking the power in her arms, which are crossed loosely over her chest. "Natasha," she says to you, introducing herself. She doesn't offer her hand.

“Hello. Nice to meet you.” 

Natasha’s eyes sweep you from top to bottom. Analyzing. Scrutinizing. Part of you wants to squirm away from her piercing gaze, but you stamp out the urge. She meets your eye a final time. The ghost of a smile reaches her lips. And then she turns to Steve, leaving you wondering if you’ve passed some sort of test. 

“Bruce phoned in while you were on your way up,” she says. “Apparently there’s some trouble in the medical bay. He won’t be joining us for the briefing.” 

Steve frowns. For the first time you’re able to see the slightest hint of wrinkles at the corner of his mouth. “What kind of trouble?” 

Natasha shrugs airily.

“Didn’t say,” she replies. She continues before Steve can press her further. “We’re already running late. We should get on with the show, don’t you think?"

Sam gets your attention with a gentle touch to your elbow. “C’mon, newbie,” he says. “You can sit next to me.” 

With everyone gathered around the table, the last of the introductions take place in quick succession. You recognize Wanda from some of the news coverage - it’s hard to forget a chick capable of blasting shit apart with red smoke - and she greets you with a nod and a low murmur of, “Hello.” The man seated beside her, Vision, is wholly unfamiliar to you. His skin reflects the light like a sheet of metal, and yet the eyes he aims in your direction are disarmingly human. You can only pray you don’t look as gawky as you feel. 

"And the one pouting at the end is Stark," Steve concludes, sweeping his arm in the man's direction.

"Your humble host and generous benefactor.” Tony toasts you with his coffee mug. He takes a large, leisurely draught before continuing. "Can we get started, Rogers, or were you planning on a round of ice-breaker games?” 

Steve rolls his eyes. "You’re just mad you weren’t getting any attention." 

"How cruel, Steven." Tony gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. "But,” he allows, “not wholly untrue…" 

A soft chuckle slips between your lips despite your best efforts to hold it in. You can see, now, why Bruce had joked about not introducing you to Stark; he seems like the sort who’ll hold court for as long as you let him, especially if he's got someone around to egg him on. Even as the thought occurs, Tony throws you a wink, looking pleased to have a new person around who hasn’t yet grown tired of his bullshit. He places himself in the seat nearest to the end of the table and gestures grandly to Steve:  _ The floor is all yours _ .

“Right.” Steve takes his place at the helm, where he produces a tablet similar to the one Bruce had been carrying earlier. They must be standard-issue throughout the Tower. His eyes move over the screen as he speaks. "We have a few things to go over, after we hear from our guest-” Steve glances up at you through his lashes, grinning to one side. It isn't a wink, but it sends heat rushing into your cheeks all the same. Hell, the man could probably flip you two birds and burp in your face, and you’d still delight in his attention. 

_ Here’s hoping  _ that  _ effect wears off _ , you think, once again annoyed at yourself.

As he looks around at the group, Steve seems to realize that something is amiss. His mouth drops into a frown.

“Where’s Bucky?” 

Glances are exchanged rapidly around the table. 

Sam looks to Natasha, who slides her gaze to Tony, who shrugs and looks pointedly at Wanda. Wanda hunches her shoulders around her ears and doesn’t look at anyone. Her hair slides in front of her face as her head drops to her lap, effectively cutting her off from the rest of the group.

What little you know about James Buchanan Barnes - “Bucky,” to his friends - has been cobbled together from adolescent school trips to the history museum and, more recently, snippets of news articles on Twitter. As far as you know, following a whole bunch of drama and  _ lots _ of very public superhero fistfights, The Winter Soldier is a bonafide member of the team. 

While all the others avoid his eye-contact completely, Steve’s gaze settles on Natasha. For her part, Natasha inspects her fingernails in a manner that reads like false-nonchalance. When she finally does speak, her words are carefully chosen.

“He...needed some alone time, following recent...events. He said you could find him in yo-” She stops. Glances your way for half a second or less. “His room. After the briefing.” Once again, Natasha looks your way. For some reason, you feel almost guilty. It must be because of your presence that she can’t be more candid. 

A tense lapse silence descends on the room. Steve would clearly like a more detailed explanation, but seems loathe to delay things further in order to get one. To his credit, he swallows down the follow-up questions and tightens his jaw. 

“That’s fine,” he says tersely. “FRIDAY, pull up the schematic again, please.”   
Like Stark had upon your arrival, Steve addresses the thin air. Out of it comes a voice which lilts in a bouncy Irish accent. (You can’t help but jolt in surprise, whipping your head around to seek out the source of the voice, and though it’s doubtful that Sam is the only person to notice your moment of shock, he _is_ the only person to outright chuckle about it.)

“ _ You got it, Captain _ .” 

Once again, the lights around you grow dim and from above comes the spectral projection of the Lab. Rotating slowly in place, casting its lidless gaze around the room. 

That clammy feeling returns to your palms. Your pulse picks up speed. As much as you want to look away, you force yourself to look the Lab right in the eye. It doesn’t blink, but then again, you didn’t expect it to. 

“Using Stark’s scanners, we were able to recreate the facility as it most likely appeared before the fire. Inside and out.” Steve gives this bit of exposition for your benefit alone, making good on his promise to share information. “We are in the process of rebuilding the individual rooms, as well, to give us a better idea of what went on in there.”

You nod to show him you understand, but the tension in your joints is obvious. Steve eyes you for a beat before he moves along.

“Take us to the database, FRIDAY.”

The points of light shift, dispersing and rejoining to form a room you’ve never seen before. Monolithian stacks, a dozen of them, dominate the center of the room. Without needing to be called upon, Tony turns in his seat and addresses the group.

“They dumped all the data they could before we arrived,” he begins. “We’re working to draw out what we can, but it’s rough going.” Tony pauses and swallows, looking personally affronted that the Lab’s tech could evade him like this. “So far, we’ve only put together a few key points of information. Jury’s still out on the  _ who _ and the  _ how _ , but we’ve finally gotten a lock on the  _ what _ , and the  _ why _ -” 

"I'm sorry," you interject. You feel a compulsion to raise your hand - like it's grade-school - and you just barely manage to fight it. "I'm already kinda lost."

Steve inclines his head, inviting your questions.

"There was a fire?"

"Yes," says Natasha. "Somehow, they caught wind that we were on their trail. They doused the place in gasoline and struck a match. It was a contingency they planned ahead of time; the sprinkler system throughout the facility was already equipped with the gas. Not an elegant solution, maybe, but an effective one." Her left shoulder rises and falls. 

Steve chimes in. “The bulk of the Patients were being kept in the basement levels, where there were no sprinkler systems. It’s the only reason we managed to pull any of you out.” 

"Oh." You blink at the room, your mind working. "But. That makes no sense. They scorched the place and then left all the Patients behind? If they were using us for something, wouldn't it make more sense to take us with them? Like, protecting their investment?"

The ghost of a smile passes over Steve's face, but it's weighted down by something darker. Bitter. Almost sad. "That's exactly what we said."

"It stands to reason," says Tony, who has removed his tinted glasses and now watches you with one hand placed studiously under his chin, "that they left you all behind because they thought they'd failed."

"Failed?" You lean forward in your seat. "At what, exactly? What were they trying to accomplish in there?"

Your memories of the Lab are murky and thick, like a dream half-remembered. What images you have retained are of meaningless pain and fear. Of course it has occurred to you that the Doctor must have been working toward  _ something _ , some goal, however awful. But right now, it feels as if the Lab existed only to twist souls until they snapped. 

Tony opens his mouth to answer, but Steve interrupts.

“We’ll get to that,” he says. He frowns in Tony’s direction for half a moment, before turning a softer expression toward you. “What I would like to do now is ask you a few questions. Like Tony said, we still don’t know who exactly is behind all this.”

“Well, neither do I.” You snort. “They weren’t exactly wearing name tags.” 

Steve spreads his hands, palms up, like he is willing to take whatever you can offer him. “Sometimes, it’s the little details that make a difference. We’re just trying to build a better picture, here.” 

There is a pitcher of water placed at one end of the table, on a tray alongside several upturned glasses. Following your gaze, Sam stands from his chair and fills a cup. “Start from the beginning,” he suggests. “The day they took you. And take your time. This is your meeting.” He places the glass in your hands before returning to his seat. As promised, it’s right next to yours. 

Subconsciously, you swivel your chair to face Sam more directly. He mimics the motion, leaving an inch or two between your knees. It puts you at ease, this simple repositioning. Makes it less like a presentation. However, remembering your promise to yourself to stay strong, you make a point to look around at everyone in the room as you speak, not just Sam. 

You swallow down a mouthful of water. It’s a dumb joke, but you can’t help yourself. 

“Well, it was a dark and stormy night...”

Sam indulges you with a chuckle. Stark, too. Even Natasha quirks a smile. 

“Really, though. It was late. Past eleven. Closer to midnight, I think. I remember because I had dropped a container of soy milk right before close and it busted open all over my shoes. It took us twenty extra minutes to move the fridge and mop it all up.” You’re surprised at how easily the details come to you. In some ways, your job feels like something from another life. 

“Where do you work?” Sam asks gently, so as not to disrupt your flow. 

“Starbucks.” An eye-roll works its way into your response. “It’s a little store right off the highway, about a thirty minute drive to Detroit. Mostly we get lots of commuters and weekend warriors making a trip to the hardware store next door. Gets really busy on Saturday nights. Sometimes I have to park in the hardware store’s lot, because ours is tiny and it fills up quick.

“So, yeah, it’s almost midnight on a Saturday, and my socks are full of lukewarm soy milk, and I’m pissed at myself for not moving my car during my lunch break, because  _ now  _ I’ve got to walk, like, five minutes across the parking lot. Not a big deal normally, but everything gets more annoying after an eight-hour Saturday shift. 

“It’s on my walk to my car that I see the big, black box van parked in the space next to mine. You know, the kind with no windows in the back? I didn’t think it was  _ too  _ weird at first, seeing other cars around. Like I said, we’re right off the highway, so a ton of folks use the parking lot there as a carpool spot. They’ll meet up with someone, leave one car there, and come back for it in the morning. At least, that’s what I assume they’re doing. Or, sometimes people will hang out in my store’s parking lot way past close because they can get on the wi-fi-” 

All at once, you realize that you’re rambling. No, stalling. Because that five minute walk to your car, with soy milk soaking your socks and dried flakes of vanilla syrup still clinging to your arms, is the last painfully normal thing you can remember. You would rather talk for hours about every last boring detail of that walk, of your job, of  _ anything _ other than what happened next. 

Your mouth snaps closed so tightly that your teeth click together. An awkward, anemic chuckle wobbles its way from your throat, and you attempt to drown it with a sip of water. You try to ignore the way your hand shakes.

“Sorry,” you mutter. 

“You’re good.” Sam ducks his head until he can meet your eye. He offers a gentle, encouraging smile. “Tell me what happened next.” 

“I heard a scream.” 

Just like that, you stop telling the story and start reliving it, instead. 

You approached the black van from the passenger’s side. The front windows of the van were tinted dark, almost too dark to see through from the outside, but even then you could tell there was no one sitting up front. But the scream you heard was close. A splitting sound of pure, primal fear before it was cut short. Tamped out, like the smothering of candlelight. 

After that, you could tell there was someone moving inside the van. Scuffling, it sounded like. You heard the muted banging of elbows and knees colliding with the metal walls. The struggle continued just long enough that your brain had time to recover from the shock. Something  _ bad _ was happening in that van, and you were just standing there in your soggy socks listening to it. 

You didn’t even consider running to your car. Never even occurred to you. It would have been smarter, certainly. Safer, definitely, to unlock your driver’s side door with the key instead of the fob, because pressing the fob made a beep and you didn’t want the bad guys knowing you were there. You could slip into your car and lay across the seat while you called the cops. That way, if the baddies happened to look over, they might not see you. 

If this were a movie, this is the plan you would have been shouting at the heroine on screen. You would have felt very pleased with yourself for being so clever, had you been nothing more than a passive observer. But you weren’t. You were the lead role. And you weren’t feeling very clever that night, you were feeling terrified. 

You dropped to your knees right there in the middle of the parking lot. Your car keys were already in your hand, but your phone was buried at the bottom of your enormous purse. Your work apron sat on top, right where you’d shoved it the moment you clocked out. It had become an unfolded mess. The strings tangled on the way out and snagged on the zipper. You had to fumble with it for a moment before you could finally toss the wad of stiff green fabric aside. It landed in a shallow pool of dirty rain water and squatted there like a toad. 

You couldn’t say when, exactly, the back door to the van flew open. Adrenaline made you panicked and stupid, and the only thing you were thinking about was finding your phone amidst the dumpster heap of shit rattling around in your purse. Maybe, by the time your fist seized around the phone, the van door had only just opened. You couldn’t be sure. 

All that mattered was that you were too late. 

Before you had the chance to stand, to run, to scream- they were on you. 

Pain bloomed from the top of your head. You just barely had time to register the sight of a pistol in the man’s hand before he brought the butt down again. You were still crouched on the asphalt, not thirty yards from the front door of your day job, where you’d spent three years going about the motions but always wishing your life was more exciting. Right before everything went black, you could only hope you’d live long enough to feel boredom again.

Someone is calling your name, and your feet are wet. 

There are hands on your shoulders. The grip is steady and strong, and still someone calls your name. Pleading. Trying to get through. But your feet are wet, like they were that night, and someone is trying to hold you. You try and fight them off, but they’re too strong. 

You cry out, like you did that night. You tell them to stop.  _ Please, stop. _ You scream it, as loud as you can, and it’s broken by sobs. 

You try to fight, but you’re too weak. Any moment now, there will be darkness. And you’ll be lost again. 

“Look at me! Open your eyes!” 

The hands on your shoulders are wrenched away, but not by you. No one is trying to hold you anymore. Not if you don’t want them to. That’s not how it was that night. 

The first thing you see are your own two feet, surrounded by a puddle of water. Your feet are bare, no socks, and no ugly, non-slip work shoes. Flip-flops are against company dress code. The glass of water Sam gave you is now in several pieces on the floor around your chair. Dropped. Shattered. Instinctively, you hoist your feet up into the chair, away from the shards of glass. One of your sandals slips free and lands in the puddle with a defeated  _ splat.  _ Holding your knees to your chest, you stare at the fallen flip-flop until someone speaks. 

“Are you with us?” 

Half-crouched, with one hand outstretched, Steve moves closer as if approaching a wild animal. It strikes you as almost comical. A big guy like Steve, so much bigger and stronger than you, moving with so much caution for your sake. Like he’s afraid of you. It’s a laughing stock, really. 

You feel the beginnings of an insane smile tug at your cheeks, and you bring your hands up to rub it away. Your fingers come away wet. 

“Was I crying?” You ask your glistening fingertips, a note of wonder in your voice. Your throat feels raw and swollen. 

“It’s alright.” Steve answers your question. You don’t bother telling him it was rhetorical. You wonder if he thinks you’re embarrassed. Has Steve Rogers ever needed someone to give him permission to cry? Once again, you’re struck with the urge to laugh. You don’t. 

The crowd in the briefing room has thinned considerably, you realize. Only Steve, Sam, and Natasha remain, with the latter lingering so far back in one corner of the room, you almost didn’t notice she was there. 

“Here,” Steve says. In the hand he stretches toward you, he has produced a packet of tissues. They’re wrapped in thin cellophane and printed with a nauseating paisley pattern. The kind old ladies carry. He notices your look of speculation. “Stark finally put his foot down and told me I shouldn’t be carrying around handkerchiefs. Called it ‘unhygenic.’ A five pound box of these showed up in my apartment the very next day.” 

“Thanks.” You accept the packet from him, truly grateful for something to clean yourself up with. Your nose always runs like a faucet when you cry. As you dab underneath your nostrils, you throw him a wry smile. “I hope you didn’t throw out all your old ones. I know folks on the internet who would pay big bucks for Captain America’s used handkerchief.” 

“That’s disgusting.” Sam grimaces at the both of you. “Maybe even worse than actually using a handkerchief.” 

Once you’ve fought through the lingering hiccups and there is no chance you’ll start crying again, you ball up your used tissues and hand the rest back to Steve. In the interim, not a word is spoken. Steve and Sam give you all the time you need to steady yourself. In the background, Natasha plays with her phone. 

“Okay,” you sigh. “I’m- I’m good now. That was- Sorry.” 

Steve only shakes his head. “Don’t stand up just yet. There’s glass everywhere.” 

Before you have time to speak, Steve takes hold of the armrests on either side of your chair and tugs you forward with no more effort than opening a drawer. Once you’ve been relocated to a Steve-approved, safe section of the room, he helps you to your feet. 

You keep your eyes down, focusing more than is necessary on sliding your foot into your other shoe. “Um, I’m sorry, about that,” you manage. “I didn’t think I’d...react that way. I’ve gone over that night a bunch of times in my head, while I was in the med bay, but it was just facts, you know? Like I was laying out a timeline, or a storyboard. I guess...saying it out loud, telling it like a story, just made it more intense.” 

Steve folds his arms across his chest. “I hear what you’re saying, but there’s nothing to apologize for.”

You huff a sigh, finally lifting your head. “I’m just saying, I still want to do this.” Your fist tightens around the wad of snotty tissues, and somehow it strengthens your resolve. “I want to help you guys, however I can. I’ll do better next time.” 

Once again, the miniscule frown lines around Steve’s mouth make an appearance. You can see the counterargument drafting itself line by line in his head. All the reasons you have nothing to be sorry for. Or why this whole plan is a bad idea. Or why it’d be better if they just put you back in the med bay or, even better, shipped you back home. 

And once again, Natasha is the perfect check to Steve’s seriousness. 

She comes around the table with her phone in her hands, scrolling even as she speaks. “Turns out Steve was right. The little details do make a difference.” She joins the little circle formed by you, Steve, and Sam- putting Sam in a perfect spot to lean over and peek at her phone. 

He lets out his loudest laugh yet. 

“What are you-” 

Natasha snatches her phone out of reach before Steve has the chance to grab for it. Holding the screen against her chest, she grins in your direction. The look in her eye makes her resemble a cat far more than a spider. 

“You said you work at a Starbucks, thirty minutes out of Detroit. Once I found all the possible suburbs, I narrowed that down by searching for stores located by highway entrances. From there, I found your store’s Instagram page, which led me to your page, which led me to…” 

“Oh, fuck.” 

But there’s no stopping her. Natasha taps the phone and, just like that, displayed on every single screen in the briefing room, is the very picture you’d pay money for no one in this room to ever see. 

That said, the look on Steve’s face almost makes it worth it. 

He’s still got one foot in Serious Superhero mode, but not even Captain America can help but smile at how proud - and cute - your thirteen year-old cousin looks in her handmade Falcon costume. The melding of his stern frown and helpless smile leaves him somewhere in the realm of a grimace, but the smile steadily gains ground the longer he looks at the picture. 

Your cousin stands posed with her hands on her hips and her feet spread. Her cardboard wings are stretched to the full of their three-foot wingspan (she kept bumping into things all night long) and she peers through a pair of goggles made of sawed-in-half, plastic Christmas baubles. 

Standing beside her, with one blue kitchen- glove-wearing hand raised in a salute, is none other than, well, you. On your head is your cousin’s old blue bike helmet, which she allowed you to borrow and paint with an A and a pair of wings. The t-shirt you wear up top has been similarly painted to match Steve’s uniform. (You spent three hours looking at reference pictures and getting it as close as you could- so as not to disappoint your cousin, of course.) In your left hand is a large plastic dinner plate, which you overturned and strapped to your arm with hot glue and a shoelace, after painting the underside to match the shield. And on the bottom, as promised, is the tutu. Worn over a pair of bike shorts that you can still remember having to tug out of your buttcrack the entire night. 

Sam is a lost cause. He snickers uncontrollably into his fist and elbows Natasha until she agrees to send him the picture. You remain standing beside Steve, both mildly embarrassed and yet wishing your cousin was here to see this. Your costume isn’t as bad as you remember, truth be told. You really nailed it with that fabric paint. 

“Don’t worry,” you say sidelong to Steve. “There isn’t a copy-right issue.” You look over and find he’s already eyeing you. 

Steve fights a smirk. “No?” 

“Nope. My superhero name was Captain A _ mur _ ica. Totally different franchise.” 

He chuckles lowly in his throat, looking back to the screen. “I dunno. I think we can find you a better name than that.” 

“While we’re at it, maybe we can talk to the costume department about switching up your look. Introduce the tactical tutu. Where’s the R&D department around here? I’ll go talk to them right now.” 

Steve’s hand comes up to cover his face. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to bury another one of those helplessly charmed chuckles against his chest. “See, this is why you don’t need to apologize.” He keeps his voice low so that Sam and Natasha, who have taken to scrolling through the rest of your Instagram feed, won’t hear. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I had my doubts, before I met you, that you’d be able to handle this.” He shrugs in a way that’s meant to be an apology. “But it’s like I told you downstairs. You seem like a person who knows their limits.” Steve pauses for a beat, wets his lips. “Well, I think you might be capable of even more than that.” 

When he looks your way, there’s a glint in his eye. Something bright and intrigued. Engaged. Invested. In you. 

In that one little moment, you think you’ve just begun to understand why the Avengers choose to follow Steve Rogers. 

And yes, you blush. 


End file.
